Broken (19 page)

Of all the shitty things I've done in my life, and there are a few,
this
is the shittiest.

I don't know what I was thinking would happen. That we'd all sit down around the dining table and I'd amuse myself at the little melodrama going on around me? That Olivia would all of a sudden open up, tell me all of her secrets, and explain what exactly it is that drove her to Maine to be my babysitter?

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson about giving Liv her privacy after texting Michael, but I'm an ass. So I eavesdropped. I listened in on the whole damn thing.

Olivia cheated on Golden Boy with Michael. And then I forced them into the same room together. I thought I was an ass, but that doesn't even
begin
to describe what I am. By the time I realized just how major an apology was due, Michael was nowhere to be seen, and Olivia had locked herself in her room.

She's been in there for two hours. I know because I've been sitting on the other side of the door for all 120 minutes of that time. For every single one of those minutes, she's been crying. And not delicate, girly sniffles. We're talking big, heart-wrenching sobs.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the door. The coward in me wants to skulk off to my room, call my dad, and tell him to get Olivia the hell away from me, where I can't do any more damage to her.

But I'm done being a coward. I need to face her myself.

Slowly, deliberately, I climb to my feet. I lift a hand and knock gently with one knuckle, but the crying doesn't so much as break. I knock harder. This time there's a pause. A little hiccup. But the door doesn't open.

“Olivia.” My voice is hoarse. “Can I come in?”

I'm prepared for all of the possible responses she could toss at me. Silence.
Fuck off. I hate you. Go away.
But I'm not really prepared for her to open the door. And I'm certainly not prepared for the pressure in my chest when I see her.

I barely register the swollen eyes, red nose, and matted hair. I can't seem to get past the immeasurable hurt written all over her face.

I do the only thing I can think of. I wrap my arms around her.

She lets me.

I caused her heart-wrenching pain, and she's letting me hold her.

Nothing has ever felt so good.

I inch her backward into the bedroom just enough to kick the door shut before gathering her as close as possible. She buries her face in my shoulder and sobs. I don't know how she has any tears left, but she does.

I rub my hands up and down her back and over her shoulders in the most soothing motions I can think of. I turn my face into her soft hair. “I'm sorry,” I whisper, my lips pressed to her head. “I'm so damned sorry.”

Her sobs turn to cries, the cries to hiccups, the hiccups to shuddering breaths. And then finally,
finally,
she falls silent. She leans back slightly to look at me, and I tense, ready for the words I know I deserve.

But she doesn't lay into me or call me names. She doesn't let me know in explicit detail that I deserve to die a miserable death. (Although I do. I know I do).

Instead, she does the last thing I expect. She talks to me. She rests her forehead against my collarbone and just
talks.

“I didn't mean to, you know,” she says, her voice raspy from crying. “I've asked myself a million times if some little part of me knew what Michael was going to tell me…what he was going to do…when I went over there that day. But I've replayed it a million times, and I wouldn't have gone if I'd known. I wouldn't have willingly put myself in the situation of hurting Ethan. If you could have seen his face…”

Olivia lets out a shuddering breath, and I pull her even closer, rubbing a palm over her back. I want to tell her that in the big scheme of things, this is nothing. That she'll get over it, that Ethan's
already
over it, but I know that to her this is big. I let her continue.

“I went to Michael's house…up to his room, thinking he wanted to talk about this girl, Casey, who he'd kind of been seeing. Since he'd never had a serious girlfriend, I figured he was just getting cold feet, or whatever.”

She's quiet for a moment.

“But he didn't want to talk about Casey,” I say, helping her along.

She shakes her head. “No. He was acting weird from the second I got there. Michael and I have always been so comfortable together. Or so I thought. But he was jumpy. He would alternate between not meeting my eyes and then looking at me too long and too hard, as though he was searching for something.”

God help me, I'm actually feeling sorry for the poor guy. I'm all too aware of what it's like to be helplessly drawn to this girl, even though you know you should be staying far, far away from her.

“I didn't see it coming,” she continues, giving a little shake of her head. “One second I was yammering about how excited I was about the internship I'd just applied for, and the next second he's grabbing my hands, his face just inches from mine, and he's telling me that he can't do it anymore. That Ethan's his best friend, but he can't do it. That he can't see me with Ethan without me knowing…”

She breaks off.

“He told you he loved you?” I say.

She nods before lifting her head to look me in the eye. “Then he kissed me. And I didn't push him away.
I let him kiss me.
”

The agony on her face is clear, and I want to tell her not to talk about it anymore, but I know she needs to get it off her chest. Very gently I put my palms on either side of her face. “Why? Did you love him back?”

Please say no.

“No,” she whispers, her tongue slipping nervously to wet her lips. “But as for
why
, I've asked myself that a million times, and I think…I think I kissed him because I knew it was a way out. Ethan and I were getting more and more serious every day, and he was the only guy I'd ever been with, and everyone, myself included, acted like we were going to be engaged at any moment, and I just—”

“You didn't want that.”

“No,” she says with an outward breath. “I thought I did. I
wanted
to want it. I loved Ethan so much. But somewhere, deep inside of me, something was off. Things were really good, but I wanted more.”

“And more was Michael?”

Her face contorts. “No. I knew as soon as his lips touched mine that that wasn't right either, but then I kissed him back, harder, wanting to feel something, anything. It didn't go…I mean, I didn't sleep with him. Not even close. But neither was it just a simple kiss in which I pushed him away and slapped his cheek. I kept trying to lose myself in the kiss, so it got kind of intense, and then Ethan walked in.”

I don't have to ask what happened after that.

“I never thought I could be that girl,” she continues. “The one who cheats on her boyfriend with his best friend. But now I realize
nobody
plans on that, you know? It's not something that anybody sets out to do, like, ‘You know, I think I'm going to be like that slutty character in the movies that everybody hates.' You always imagine that you're going to be the good girl everybody roots for. You imagine that right up until the very second when you're not the good girl.”

My palms are still on her face, and now I hook my thumbs gently under her jaw, tilting her up so she has to look at me.

“You're still good, Olivia,” I say quietly. “You made a mistake. A big, shitty one, definitely. Yes, you betrayed Ethan. And yeah, maybe you used Michael. But the fact that you've been killing yourself over it shows that
that's not who you are.
It was a one-time mistake. You'll make more mistakes in the future, but you won't make
that
one. You'll learn from it and move on.”

She closes her eyes. “You didn't see Michael's face. Ethan has Stephanie, and I think he's forgiven me, but Michael—”

“Will get over it,” I say with finality. “He's what, twenty-two? And if he was lucky enough to be your best friend all those years, he's got to be a decent guy under it, right? He just fell for the wrong girl.”

She doesn't say anything, and I press my hands just a little more firmly against her cheeks.

“He will be fine.
You'll
be fine.”

When she opens her eyes, they're shiny with tears again, but I don't think they're tears of despair. She looks hopeful.

“Thank you,” she says. Her hand slowly comes up to rest against my chest. “Thank you.”

I let out a harsh laugh, trying to ignore what her touch does to me. “You really shouldn't be thanking me after what I did to you.”

“As far as bad-guy plans go, it was
really
devious. And I can't believe he came.”

“He cares about you.” I rub my thumbs over her cheekbones. “And I
may
have given the impression that your situation was dire.”

“It
was
dire,” she says, her fingers fiddling with my shirt button. “You haven't talked to me in weeks. I haven't even seen you.”

“Worried that you're not earning your salary?” I ask, careful to keep my voice teasing and not accusatory.

“That's not why I wanted to see you.”

My heart stops. “Then why?”

Green eyes lift to mine. “I miss you. I don't know why, because you're a total beast. And I don't understand why I can't stop thinking about you, because you're so infuriating, and you shut me out every time one little thing doesn't go your way, and you'll probably hurt me so much worse than anyone else has ever been able to hurt me, but—”

My mouth stops her rambling flow of words, a hard, desperate kiss, even as I wait for her to reject me, knowing I deserve rejection. But her arms wind around my neck and her tongue reaches sweetly for mine as she presses against me.

“I want you,” she whispers, pulling back just slightly.

My self-control snaps. I spin her around, pushing her against the door as my hands slide from her face down to her hands before I lift them above her head. She moans as I pin her to the door, and I kiss her again and again, until I forget whose breath is whose. Until I can't stop myself from running my hands over her arms, her hips, and up along the sides of her torso, both of us groaning when my palms brush the sides of her breasts.

I want to lose myself in her.

Reaching for whatever tiny seed of good is still left inside me, I force myself to pull back and give her space and time to think about this. I look down at her flushed face and swollen mouth, both of us breathing hard.

“I need to know what you want from this,” I say gruffly. “I need to know where the line is.”

Olivia presses her lips together, and I brace myself for rejection. I almost see the wheels turning inside her head as she tries to figure out if I'm a mistake, like Michael, or if I'm worth the risk.

For the first time in so long, I want to be worth the risk.

Her fingers settle just above the waistband of my jeans, the pads of her fingers hot through the fabric of my shirt.

She leans forward and presses her lips to the hollow of my throat.

“I don't want there to be any line,” she says, her breath warm against my skin. “Not tonight.”

There's nothing gentle about Paul's touch, and I don't want there to be. After months of fighting a fierce and uncontrollable need for this guy, I want to give in to him.

I want to give in to
us.

Half a second after I give him the green light he's kissing me again, his hands moving to my waist and lifting me slightly. My legs wind around his waist while he cups my hips, my ass, pulling us together until I feel him hard against me through our jeans.

His lips pull at mine, and if our kiss minutes before was steamy, this one could set us on fire. His military-short haircut is nothing to hold on to, so I wrap my hands around the back of his neck, my fingers digging into the soft skin there as I alternate between letting him plunder and doing my own fierce exploring.

Paul roughly uses his chin to push my face to the side as his lips move over my cheek and across my jaw, lingering on my earlobe, before he devours my neck. His lips and teeth torture me until my hips rub against his insistently, and it only takes a few more seconds before our position against the bedroom door doesn't give either of us enough access.

In three steps, he spins us around, moves toward the bed, and tosses me onto my back. Some distant part of my brain registers that his movements, with their determined authority, are not the hampered actions of a man with an injured leg. This is a man who wants a woman. And this woman definitely wants him back.

For a moment he looks down at me as I stare back up at him, both of us breathing hard as we take in the sheer
rightness
of the moment. We move at the same time then, him reaching down as I sit up, arms outstretched.

I didn't know it when I said it, but
this
is what I meant when I said that I'd been looking for something when I kissed Michael. I wanted that elusive yearning for another person. It's
here.
I yearn for Paul. Only him.

My fingers go for the buttons of his shirt, tearing at them as his fingers move through my hair, tugging my head back so he can watch as I peel his shirt off, first one shoulder, then the other.

My eyes catch on a tattoo over his heart. I noticed the simple black letters before, when we slept together, but I'm bolder now and lean forward to place my lips there.

“Semper fi?”

“Short for
semper fidelis,
‘always faithful.' It's the Marine Corps motto.”

I swallow. The sentiment is somehow haunting, but perhaps that's only because I know what being always faithful has cost him.

“Don't,” he says, leaning down to brush his lips against my temple. “Don't go wherever your head's going.”

His lips take mine again, and I can't think about anything about him and the way that he tastes deliciously, perfectly like Paul.

When his hands drift down to the hem of my shirt, I lift my arms over my head.

I'm not what you'd call well endowed. I've always had more angles than curves, and I'm kind of wishing I'd worn one of my push-up bras instead of the pale pink demi cup.

But then Paul looks down at me. And he makes me feel beautiful.

He slowly drags his fingertips over my rib cage as I sit before him, his eyes watching the movement of his hands. When his fingers reach the bottom of my bra, his eyes flick to mine, and his gaze is dark and smoky.

I pull his head down to mine at the same time his hands close over my breasts, and we both moan.

He moves over me as I scoot back on the bed, and then I'm beneath him, his body covering mine as his hands hold my head still for a deep, demanding kiss. When his hands slide beneath my back, I arch up, giving him access to the bra snap.

I let out a little laugh at how easily he undoes it. “Done this before?”

“Not in a long time,” he says with a smile. “A
long
time.”

My heart skips a beat as I register what he's saying. He hasn't been with anyone in years. Not gonna lie—I'm elated.

“Too bad for the ladies of Maine,” I say, my fingers going to his belt buckle. “But lucky for me.”

He groans as I slide a hand into his jeans, finding him hard through his boxers. “Olivia.” His head dips down, hovering above my nipple for a half second, his eyes moving to mine before he licks the tip of my breast.

I let out a small cry, one hand going to the back of his head and holding him to me as he makes me crazy with his mouth.

He pulls back only long enough to get rid of both of our jeans, until he's left only in blue boxers and me in my bikini panties. Sitting back on his knees, he smiles down at me. “You wear pink lingerie. Of course.”

He slides a finger along the lace before hooking his fingers into the thin fabric and tugging them down my legs.

I'm naked before Paul Langdon, and nothing has ever felt so right.

He looks at me, his eyes worshipping, and I lie perfectly still, letting him.

“You're beautiful,” he says, his voice turning regretful. “You deserve someone equally beautiful.”

My heart clenches at the expression on his face, and I sit up, kneeling in front of him. And then I show him what I don't know how to say with words. I lean forward and very softly kiss a thin, ragged scar running from his left shoulder to the center of his chest.

He sucks in a breath. “Don't.”

I ignore him, kissing my way up his neck, lingering along that perfect, harsh jawline before moving over to his right side.

He tenses as he realizes what I'm about to do.
“Don't.”

My hands find his before he can push me away, and gently my lips touch the first of the raised scars on his face. I follow suit with the other two scars, each touch of my lips letting him know that to me he is perfect.

Paul crushes his mouth to mine then, pushing me onto my back. His hand slides between my legs, finding me wet and wanting. He pulls back only long enough to remove his boxers before he comes back to me, sliding one long finger into me without warning.

“You need to be sure about this,” he says, his voice hoarse against my neck as he fingers me. “No regrets tomorrow.”

Regrets? Definitely the furthest thing from my mind right now, and I slide my hand down to his erection to show him so.

He swears before grabbing both of my wrists and pinning them above my head with one hand.

“I can't go slow, Olivia. Not with you, not this first time. I can't promise gentle, either. Maybe next time,” he says with a little laugh.

My heart is a little stunned—and glad, beyond glad—to realize that he's planning on a next time.

I squirm. “I don't want gentle.”

I've barely whispered the sentence when he thrusts inside me, hard and fast. I gasp a little at the invasive pleasure of it.

He buries his face in my neck with a muttered curse, and the dark room is filled with the sound of our harsh breathing.

Then I wind my legs around his waist and he goes wild. One hand continues to hold my wrists as the other slides down my hip, under my butt. I helplessly twist my wrists above my head, wanting to touch him, but he holds me in a vise, leaving me completely at his mercy as he drives me up almost to the headboard.

“Jesus, Olivia.”

In response, I turn my head, scraping my teeth down the side of his neck, smiling wickedly as it spurs him to an even faster pace.

I've never been like this before, wanton and wild, but it's like he's tapped into another side of me that I didn't know existed. Gone is the girl who thought she wanted sweet words and gentle kisses. I only want
him
.

“More,” I whisper. “Please.”

Paul groans in response, releasing my wrists so that his hands can go to my knees. He presses my legs wider apart before lifting his head slightly. Just enough to look down at me, his blue eyes burning a dark slate gray.

Then he rotates his hips once, twice, pressing against me in just the right way. I'm closer to coming than I realized, and the way his pace increases, I don't think I'm alone on the precipice.

I realize then how much we've lost ourselves in the other person. Enough to get stupid.

“Paul.” With my last bit of sanity I claw frantically at his shoulder. “Condom.”

He freezes. “Shit.
Shit
.”

I try not to moan at the loss of him as he moves to get his jeans and digs through the pocket.

“Seriously?” I ask with a breathless little laugh as I hear the familiar sound of ripping foil. “You carry that around?”

He rolls on the condom and gives me an unapologetic grin. “Every day since the first night I fingered you in my bedroom. I thought it was wishful thinking, but I'm
really
glad that it's not.”

Then he's inside me again, his palms on the inside of my thighs as he keeps me open and deliciously exposed.

His hand moves to where we're joined, his thumb finding my clit, moving in tiny, tight circles, and I swear to God, I go blind.

And then I explode with a loud cry I barely recognize as my own.

Seconds later, my hands are once more above my head. My breath still shuddering, I'm pinned to the bed in every possible way as he moves harder, faster, his eyes locking on mine until he squeezes them shut. His face is the picture of ecstasy as he comes inside me with a harsh gasp.

Afterward, the weight of him crushes me, but I welcome it, my hands moving possessively across his broad back, holding him to me as we both ride out the aftershocks.

Neither of us speaks, which is just as well. I don't know what the hell we'd say.

Wow.

Oh my God.

Do it again.

Paul finally moves, brushing my shoulder with his lips before moving into the bathroom.

I'm cold without him, so I muster the energy to pull up the covers. I contemplate putting on pajamas, or at least underwear, but my body seems to be even less inclined to work than my brain, so instead I curl up naked beneath the sheets.

When he comes out of the bathroom, I instinctively tense, bracing for him to leave without a word or, worse, say something asshole-ish like
thank you.

Instead he hesitates just outside the bathroom door. He looks…nervous. Not because of his nakedness, obviously, because he seems just fine letting it all hang out there (and may I just say
wow
on naked Paul Langdon).

And then it hits me. He doesn't know if he's invited to stay. And he's too scared to ask.

l lift a corner of the covers in silent invitation.

He's beside the bed in three steps, sliding under the covers and pulling me to him. His kiss is both sweet and urgent before he lies on his back and moves his arm to the side, making a nook for me. I happily settle in.

I have yet to speak. I'm still trying to figure out what happened to me. Trying to figure out what it is about this guy that brings out my shameless side.

He too is silent, and for a moment I think he's asleep, but then he turns his head slightly, his lips on my hairline. “Are you any better at cuddling post-orgasm, by any chance?”

I smile against his chest. “Nope.”

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “One of these days I just might have to tie you up.”

“You mean it?” I say it in a coy, teasing way, but once my brain actually goes there, I have a full, almost unbearably erotic visual of me tied up beneath him as he licks all over my body. And then maybe
him
tied up beneath me, so
I
can do the exploring…

Paul lets out a little laugh. “Olivia Middleton, I do believe that you're slightly wicked under that good-girl exterior.”

“Only with you,” I say, glad he can't see my flaming cheeks as I make the admission.

He's silent for several seconds, and when he speaks, I can tell he's smiling. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”